


Views of Exiting Empire

by tomato_greens



Series: Listen, Listen - music ficlets [13]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:45:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_greens/pseuds/tomato_greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley feels dreadful, which, really, despite the fact that he is evil personified, the very tangible expression of Our Lord and Condemner on this lowly earth, suave owner of seven pairs of extremely expensive sunglasses and a state-of-the-art ansaphone, is not a particularly unusual state of affairs, relatively speaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Views of Exiting Empire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/gifts).



> Written to Andrew Bird's [Scythian Empire](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSBLSfhVSR0).

Crowley feels dreadful, which, really, despite the fact that he is evil personified, the very tangible expression of Our Lord and Condemner on this lowly earth, suave owner of seven pairs of extremely expensive sunglasses and a state-of-the-art ansaphone, is not a particularly unusual state of affairs, relatively speaking––Hell just doesn’t have the same health benefits as it used to, since all the best insurance lawyers have defected to the other side (and to think he’d almost gotten a commendation for free clinics). Crowley groans and pulls his blanket over his head, the better to block out the sunlight and assuage the thousands of tiny napalm-blasting miners who have commandeered the lower part of his skull, the glass shards which surely must be protruding from his throat. 

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale, who has appeared out of nowhere, the nosy bastard. “This is a fine kettle of fish.”

Crowley says, “Get out,” but it comes out sounding more like, “Ughnsdhg.” Then he says, “Fuck you,” but by the time it comes out of his throat it’s been mangled into, “I want to die.”

“You wait just a second,” Aziraphale promises, “I’ll bring up some nice tea for you, hmm?” He hears the soft pad of Aziraphale’s footsteps down into his kitchen, the pot being set on the stove, never mind that he has an electric kettle just sitting out on the counter where anyone could use it.

Crowley doesn’t want to be fussed over, he doesn’t want tea with honey, he doesn’t want anything but to be left alone and perhaps a steam bath. He certainly doesn’t want Aziraphale to come back into the bedroom, tenderly untuck his comforter, and hand him a mug while stroking his hair back from his face.

“Get off me,” he says, voice slurred up by mucus. He’d managed to forget about mucus for the past century or so; no wonder humans were so obsessed with the stuff, it was disgusting, bogeymen the only possible product of misbehaved children and the common cold. He could probably get Aziraphale to miracle this away even if he couldn’t do it himself, but he couldn’t even rally the attention to ask for it.

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale said, helping him sip the tea, then lying him back down and pulling the covers up again before toeing off his shoes.

“What are you doing, angel?” Crowley asked suspiciously. 

“I think it should be obvious,” Aziraphale said, pulling off his trousers and then his sweater so that he was only in his tartan underthings. Crowley was too overwhelmed by the vision to do anything about it but wave a hand in disdain––some people just didn’t want to learn.

Aziraphale pushed him over, gently, then crawled in behind him, arms wrapped around his middle. This thing was still new between them: a desperate kiss pre-Apocalypse, a fuck post-Apocalypse, violent and strange, marks all over the pair of them. This gentleness was––unexpected.

“Go to sleep, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and against his own better instincts Crowley did, soothed and softened, in bed with the enemy, wrapped entirely in bewingèd love.


End file.
